


White Tower

by grayglube



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, Female Roman Godfrey, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's too tall, in heels she's a white tower all her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Tower

**Author's Note:**

> My writing buddy wanted female genderswapping Hemlock Grove stuff so I wrote this.

She’s spoiled. He knew when he met her. He knows it now while she’s watching him sharpen her battle-axe, family silver and she’s just after his free labor. A gypsy knife sharpener. His grandfather used to do it door to door for ten dollars. She presses her thumb on the edge, hot from the whetstone friction and paints her lips with the welled red line like it’s a tester sample of drugstore lipstick. No, not drugstore. Beauty counter Bergdorf's.

She’s tall. Like her mother is, in flat shiny lace up shoes, mannish and worth more than a car payment, when she’s dressed for dinner the heels she wears turn her into a different sort of white tower.

She’s hateful. Letha and her easy charm, _Pennslymania_ , Roman watching from the candy cotton concession while Letha went off with some nameless boy who ran some whirling carnival ride, ‘He’s cute, right?’ ‘So why don’t you go _fuck_ him?’ Peter dreams about it, screaming, Roman and her eyes that set off things in people, bells ringing in hell and in your head.

She’s hungry. The night before the baby is born they rip apart a hank of butcher shop beef sitting on the kitchen floors, knee to knee, her nails tearing it apart and still dirty from the church and Christina. There’s red juice on her collar and in her hair and dripping down her chin and safe at home Letha is panting through pregnancy pains and next to Roman in her dark chef's kitchen Peter wants to fuck. No babies are born in the night and Peter leaves tasting only raw steak on his teeth.

 

He’s gone.

And then he’s back.

 

There’s a baby upstairs in her fancy condo, there’s an office at the top of the tower with her name on the door, there are dead bodies of tramps and prostitutes with her teeth marks on them, she’s lady bluebeard and he’s come back to be her pet again.

 

They share Miranda like she’s a two-stick ice cream treat, Roman goads and he just fucks, Miranda’s hands in Roman’s hair, holding her against her swollen breasts, there’s blood and Roman is so greedy for it that Peter goes unnoticed, being ignored doesn’t bother him until Roman is satiated, belly full of hot blood and dozing on Miranda’s other side done for the night with an orgasm that she gives herself.

Peter wonders if he’s her only friend. If some human bit of her knows you can’t fuck your friends and still be friends.

And then there is no baby and no Miranda and her mother is somewhere out in the world, reliving life without her children, Shelly is the Princess trapped in a tower now and not the monster in hiding. Roman’s a queen in a castle, an empty home she’s moved back into and Peter needs a place to sleep that isn’t the couch in Destiny’s apartment.

 

They live like a pair of orphans, street ruffian Oliver Twist and the Littlest Princess as playmates, except good things can't last. But maybe him and Roman aren't a good thing anyway.

 

A full moon comes and she’s not there to watch him change, she’s busy she says, destroying every bit of the house she grew up in that reminds her of her mother and her sister and the men who she both called dad, eventually, Letha and the baby.

She’s there to bring him back, smoking in the greenhouse, empty pots and humidity, he’s stuck inside an animal that wants to rip open her belly and eat her insides, again.

“Been waiting. Sun’s almost up, you know you’re late.” Her tone and face are flat. She flicks the cigarette onto a damp washboard for bulbs and kneels down. Peter knows what it’s like to be hungry, he is then.

Roman’s 5’10 in ruined silk slippers and Turkish nightshirt, white queen standing on a checkered floor, her hair turns the same color as the sun as it starts to show on the glass roof, she sticks him with a syringe of thorazine, another when he isn’t settled. On her shoulder Peter watches the ground, nips at her flanks, red lines on the sides of her thighs and she drops him on the butcher's block in the kitchen.

“You’re a pain in the ass, should have bought a collar and leash instead and kept you like this.”

There's a soft grin, like she's thought about it. Thought about it and hasn't decided. He growls, stuck. With a snuffle he licks his snout, limp and damp, the whole kitchen will smell like wild animal after the afternoon bakes in the smell.

“Talked to Destiny about this. What I should do.” There’s a knife in her hand, one people use to skin animals and he knows it will hurt.

“This is gonna fucking hurt. I guess. I’m keeping the fur.” Her grin is wicked and bright and she runs a long hand down through his fur, tugs his tail, strokes his belly like he’s her good boy, nails subtle along his groin and he knows it’s not an accident, knows she’s fucking curious even though she won’t fucking admit to anything, plead the fifth while she’s dying.

She stretches out his leg, flays him hairless and then cuts down enough to shove in her hands and rip apart his ribs, he’s reaching for her arms and she’s peeling, pulling, yanking him out of his second skin, it’s like the pain of birth that babies don’t remember, breathing air after water, the squeeze out of somewhere safe and warm and weightless, it’s being cold and overstimulated and his pelt is on the block and he’s on the floor.

Roman tells him to remember the pain of being skinned alive and torn out of where he wants to be, tell him she’ll do it every full moon until he fucking leans some self-control. He rasps, it’s supposed to be a laugh.

“You’re heavy.” Her hands slip on his shoulders, he’s too tired to move but he’s on his back once she’s pushed him off.

“And wet like a girl on prom night. It’s gross, man.” But her manicured nails are carving through the stick of it like it isn’t, and her thighs on hips move like lazy butterfly wings, the sound is obscene.

She licks his throat and his face, because he’s bloody like afterbirth. He searches with two fingers until he finds her sex. “You’re wet like a girl on prom night,” he answers after shoving them inside, crooks them, fast and sudden, laughs a little at how ragged he sounds, like he’s dying and Roman grunts back. “You’re too limp dick to function and I want a fuck not a half assed finger banging.” She emphasizes by searching for his dick and moving it between her legs, slippery and flaccid and he wishes she hadn’t doped him so hard.

She’s off and settling on the countertop with her cigarettes, Peter watches her red ankles kick the cabinets, he’s out, sleeping where he’s lying only because he’s too drugged to move.

 

There’s a fresh bath for him upstairs and he knows the maid did it but Roman doesn’t understand the gesture of doing things with your own hands rather than with a command, still he smiles wry and small at it, scratching the dried blood on his stomach and pulling the stick of it from his hair.

 

She’s barefoot in a black shift dress, hair almost down to her ass and hissing into the phone, “Next week, do it.” She slams the phone down.

The maid brings something in on a plate, under a shiny heat dome but Peter thinks he knows what it is.

His insides on a silver platter.

He watches her eat his liver.

She smiles at him and asks if he wants to go visit Shelly, her teeth are red.

 

She wants to show him something.

His skin is on her floor a week later, she kisses the nose and tongue tips the teeth of his other face and he tries hard to find some sort of compliment. It takes a while.

“Classy.”

He’s imagining her naked on it, touching it like she’s touched him, as close to worship and sentimentality as she can get, thinks about fucking her on it, her face pressed into the fur and her long hair in his hand with her knees open and slipping against it.

He dreams about it and knows she sees.

In his dream he’s still wearing it and she’s fucking hungry.

  


 


End file.
